


An Invitation You Can't Decline

by twistedmiracle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary: </b> Draco absolutely couldn’t stand it anymore.</p><p><b>Prompt:</b> 56. Draco, probably the most exclusive escort in the Wizarding world, has often seen Harry Potter making a disgrace of himself on the dance-floor during Ministry galas and such. One night, he can't take it anymore and sweeps him into a perfect waltz. Next day, Potter offers to pay for a whole week of Draco's services... as a dancing instructor. But Draco wants so much more!</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Invitation You Can't Decline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlineDaryen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlineDaryen/gifts).



> **Notes:** , I know you suggested oblivious!Harry here, but I realized shortly after I began writing that I was trending rather opposite, instead. I do hope you like it anyway!  
>  Huge thanks to my beta, AQ. :D  
> The title of the fic comes from Queen’s song “Killer Queen,” about which Freddy Mercury said: “It's about a high class call girl. I'm trying to say that classy people can be whores as well.” http://www.queenarchives.com/index.php?title=Freddie_Mercury_-_11-02-1974_-_NME  
> Also, I stole a name for a minor OMC from “The Princess Bride.” Happy 25th anniversary!

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

Draco absolutely couldn’t stand it anymore. The handsomest man in the room. The most stunning robes. The attention of every person of wealth, of importance, of power! And yet he danced like, like _that_? Draco had tried for so many months now, for far too many parties: to ignore the shuffling movements, the winces from the slippered ladies and lightly-shod gentlemen whose toes the man stepped on. Not to mention the clenched hands, the stiff back, the slow feet, the apologetic smiles! But no more. It was simply not to be borne any longer.

“Please do excuse me for a moment,” he whispered quietly to the wealthy middle-aged widow paying him to escort her to the charity ball of the year. As he bent to kiss her glove, he looked up at her. Despite his intense desire to stride over to the other side of the room and right a terrible aesthetic wrong, he needed to assure himself that she was willing to let him go. She was paying him after all, and a good word from this particular client could guarantee him some month’s worth of top bookings all on its own!

But she winked broadly at him and made the slightest of gestures with her head. Draco looked where she had indicated and saw that she’d clearly drawn the attention of one of the gentleman she’d hoped to attract – the very reason she’d hired Draco to adorn her arm in the first place. Bartonius Crubbler, a widower himself though only a few years older than Draco, was staring foolishly at the back of the widow Jacksmith’s head.

Assured he’d done his job to make her look the most intriguing woman in the room, Draco swept off to teach the infuriating Harry Potter a lesson.

Or at least show him what true dancing was.

Draco had known how to work a room since he was quite young. Of course, as a toddler, a great deal of that skill was invested in things he’d now outgrown. Most toddlers are both adorable and charming while they are getting everything they want. It is simple evolution. Were they not, they’d be eaten when times got rough.

But Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had made certain that Draco learned every possible lesson from those early parties and those years when charm came instinctively. In addition, they had carefully built on those lessons through the years until finally, after the war, Draco intuitively understood every basic rule of human manipulation and could infer useful information that was more situationally specific.

Much of this Draco had learned while Voldemort and his various minions had lived in his family home.

This sort of skill set came in handy when one wanted to cross a room quickly even if normally, one never did any such thing. As such, Draco successfully avoided insulting all nine of the people who’d hoped to talk to him, and yet pleased and flattered all thirteen of the people who wanted a smile or a nod from him – a coterie that would have been annoyed had he stopped to interrupt any of them.

All this, while still managing to arrive in front of Potter at the perfect moment, from the perfect angle, and with the perfect words on his lips and the exact right look on his face.

“May I have this dance?” Draco requested in the politest tone. His face though – he was quite sure – reflected a subtle sense of irony and camaraderie. A “we’re in this together” warmth coupled lightly with “can you believe how silly this all is?”

Potter, as easily manipulated at twenty-two as he was at twelve, took Draco’s arm without even thinking. He seemed to return to his own thoughts a few steps into the waltz Draco pulled them into.

“Malfoy?” he said, sounding amused.

“Just follow my lead, dear old chum. I couldn’t stand to watch you fumble over another unworthy victim’s toes, could I?” Draco grinned self-deprecatingly down at the shorter man in his arms as he flirted an insult into a question.

“Ah,” Potter said, relaxing into Draco's lead and somehow following him perfectly for several steps of their waltz – perhaps because he wasn’t looking at his feet.

“So that’s what this is about, then?” Potter asked, remarkably pliant in Draco’s hands. “I don’t blame you for taking over. I know I’m awful at this. Always have been.” He smiled sadly and suddenly went the wrong way, jerking Draco to the left when they should have moved to Draco's right.

“Shh,” Draco cajoled. “Stop thinking about dancing. You were doing beautifully a moment ago, when you weren’t thinking about it. Dancing is just exercise; choreographed walking. You’re perfectly capable of it. Just follow my lead. Don’t think about your feet.” He twirled Potter in a gentle circle and Potter followed him like a mirror.

“Perfect,” Draco purred at him. Potter cocked his head in amusement but continued to ignore his own feet and mold himself into Draco's arms like sun-warmed chocolate.

Draco swallowed.

They swayed together like Swiss clockwork. Like willows in the same breeze. Holding Potter in his arms was nothing like Draco had expected as he’d strode across the room, keeping his frustration hidden behind a gracious, calculated smile. This felt nothing like one-upmanship. It felt nothing like one of the waltzing lessons he occasionally gave a client before a ball. This felt like… Draco's mind shied away from finishing the thought and he smiled politely at Potter, who looked confused for a split second.

“Did I do something wrong?” Potter murmured softly, his voice affecting Draco's stomach muscles unpleasantly. “I thought I’d been doing all right, really…” Potter’s step faltered. Draco felt it in the hands he’d rested on Potter’s shoulder and waist.

“No, no,” Draco cajoled. “You were fine. I … you were fine.” He gave Potter his warmest smile to cover his awkwardness. He needed this waltz to end. He needed to escape to the balcony for a lung full of freezing air.

They continued to move together as the string quartet played. This was surely the longest waltz in their repertoire? Potter smiled at Draco and Draco smiled back, his dazzling smile, his automatic smile. Then he coughed.

Potter stopped moving and they separated awkwardly, then bumped back together, their arms still linked. “Are you ill?” Potter asked, kindness in his voice.

“Of course not,” Draco replied without thinking, but he coughed again, shocked at his unconscious deceptions, even as they contradicted one another. “At least,” he sounded reluctant and winsome – good, his training was kicking in to override his emotions and this annoying confusion – “I didn’t think I was.”

“You should go take care of yourself,” Potter said, and took his hands from Draco's shoulders. “Thank you for the dance.”

His smile was concerned, but nothing more, and Draco bowed gently, caught one of Potter’s hands, and kissed the air right above it. “You’re too kind,” Draco said, affecting a slight roughness to his voice. Then he strode swiftly to the mens, where he hid in a bathroom stall for as long as he thought he could get away with avoiding the widow Jacksmith and her new entourage.

By the time he emerged, Potter had apparently gone home. Draco did not see him again that evening. His night was both smoother and duller as a result.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

Sunday Draco spent as he usually did: catching up on correspondence, taking tea with Mother, exercising. But persistently, his concentration was interrupted by memories of holding Potter in his arms: sweet, willing, deferential….

Even Mother noticed. “Something distracts you, son? Was last evening unpleasant?”

His mother did not _like_ what Draco did for a living, but with father incarcerated for the foreseeable future, their British coffers nearly emptied by fines, and their foreign investments still locked down as a result of post-war diplomatic maneuverings… she knew he was supporting them both with the only work he had been able to find, despite his excellent N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s.

It was, indeed, a new world.

“Potter, as it happens, Mother. I was just thinking about how things have deteriorated for us so, and yet….” He trailed off, his mind again so wrapped in memories of dancing Potter around the ballroom that he wasn’t even aware he’d left his thought to dissipate into the steam off the teacup.

“I wouldn’t trade it for what we had before his victory, either,” his mother interjected into his pause. Caught woolgathering, Draco looked at his mother again. She frowned as though perhaps she should rephrase. Then she patted his hand and they sat together, enjoying the winter sunlight streaming into the conservatory.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

The unexpected owl arrived on Monday afternoon. At first Draco thought the bird winging toward his window was that of an infrequent customer of his, a reclusive older wizard who required the occasional escort to a family gathering and preferred the sort of companion who never talked back and gave excellent blowjobs before leaving to spend the night elsewhere. As eccentric as only the exceedingly wealthy can be, Isocrates Warmington kept only the plainest and cheapest of barn owls.

But this plain barn owl did not portend a Warmington wedding or baby naming at all. She was far larger than the bird Draco remembered Warmington sending, and she was sweeter.

And she was Potter’s.

> _ Malfoy, _
> 
> __. I hope this note finds you well again. You seemed to be coming down  
>  with something when I saw you the other night. I hope your mum or the  
>  house elves or whatever were able to pepper-up you right back to well?  
>  Being sick sucks. 
> 
> __. Pardon my casual letter but I’m no good at the formal stuff. At any  
>  rate, another thing that sucks is my dancing! Not that you weren’t  
>  aware of that! And that’s why I’m writing. I thought we danced really  
>  well together, and I don’t usually think that! You seemed to think  
>  I was doing all right as well, which I really appreciated. 
> 
> __. I get stuck at gatherings like that far too often for my taste, and there’s  
>  always dancing, and all these people who give me the puppy-dog eyes  
>  when I try to turn down their requests! So I was hoping I could hire you  
>  to help me learn to dance? I know we don’t have the smoothest history,  
>  but we were obviously able to put that behind us on Saturday night, so  
>  I figure we should be mature enough now to put it behind us for an hour  
>  or three a week, right? What do you say? I’ve never hired a private  
>  consultant or teacher before, so I’m flying blind a bit here, but that nice  
>  lady you came in with told me that she’d hired you as a dancing teacher  
>  herself, so I figure you must know your stuff. 
> 
> __. I hope you’re willing to give this a go, even though I have two left feet.  
>  Either way, please send your reply back with Eirene. I’ve Tuesday even-  
>  ing free from 5:30 to 7pm, and Thursday the same time. Would either  
>  work for your schedule? It wouldn’t have to be the whole 90 minutes. 
> 
> _ Sincerely,  
> . Harry Potter  _

Draco skimmed the letter once, then looked at Potter’s owl, who was preening quietly, waiting for his reply. He sat at his writing secretary and read the letter over again carefully. If he didn’t have good reason to think himself ridiculous, he would swear Potter was nervous as hell when he wrote this. Babbling, defensive, apologetic…. But Potter? Nervous about writing Draco? And yet…. Draco read it over again. If it were anyone but Potter he would be absolutely certain the writer felt uncomfortable about writing. So why might Potter? He started a list.

Reasons Potter might feel odd contacting me:

our history  
he feels strange hiring a sex worker to teach him to dance  
we haven’t ever had a real conversation, even though he testified for me and Mother and brought back my wand as soon as he was legally allowed  
 ~~he felt the same sexual tension I did~~

 

Draco laughed as he crossed out number four. There was no way that last one was true. Still, there were three legitimate reasons left, and any or all of them could apply. So his first analysis probably was correct.

He cracked his knuckles slowly as he leaned back in his chair. There was no question but that he would accept the commission, of course. He was an excellent dancing instructor even if he’d never be able to support himself, his mother, and the damned crumbling Manor on those sorts of fees. And when it got out that _Potter_ had hired him…. well, that fact – even presented as an unsubstantiated rumour – ought to earn him enough high paying work to put even the widow Jacksmith’s connexions to shame.

But if Potter was a little uncomfortable even writing to Draco, then this needed to be approached with the utmost tact. He probably would want reassurances of privacy, would surely want to do this in his home, might not have the slightest idea how to talk about fees….

Draco dipped his quill in the navy blue ink he used for clients and did his best to assuage the fears he thought he was seeing.

> _ Potter, _
> 
> _ I am so pleased you have contacted me. Assisting you with dance lessons would be my pleasure. I am available both times you suggest, so I propose we meet during both of them for the full 90 minutes, and get a comprehensive sense of your dancing knowledge and abilities. Then we can chart a course of instruction that fits both our schedules. I believe you will see noticeable improvement in a week or less. _
> 
> _ I will be happy to Floo to your home in my teaching regalia – short robes, leggings, and leather soled dancing shoes. You should feel free to wear any clothing, jeans to robes to tuxedo – that you can dance in. As well, the shoes you usually wear to galas and balls would be the best pair to learn to dance in. _
> 
> _ I charge 90 galleons an hour for dancing lessons, and will accept these first 270 galleons in coin or cheque after the second lesson, as you prefer. Please be prepared to begin the lesson hydrated and comfortable, in a room with a fairly large floor – at least 15 feet square of open space, magically created or hand built, either way. _
> 
> _ I greatly appreciate the opportunity to do business with you, and look forward to seeing you Tuesday evening at 5:30pm. (Please send Floo directions at your convenience.) _
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  Draco Malfoy _

Draco read the letter over with a critical eye, and decided it was adequate. He’d aimed for businesslike, informative, and reasonably brief. And Potter’s owl was too well behaved to be believed. If she’d been an arrogant Malfoy owl she’d have broken something by now, being made to wait so long. So Draco sealed up the letter, offered Eirene a treat, and watched her wing away, the note securely attached to her leg.

Then he went downstairs to dinner, wondering what, if anything, he should say to Mother about this latest job.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

By the time Draco Flooed to Potter’s on Tuesday he’d almost managed to forget the way Potter had melted in his arms.

“Malfoy, glad you’re here. Do these shoes look reasonable? I don’t always wear the same shoes to those parties, and I really want to learn to dance in these.”

Draco turned toward the voice to see Potter standing in a large room with a wooden floor. He wore ancient jeans and an emerald green Henley. The unbuttoned vee neck of the shirt showed off Potter’s Adam’s apple and allowed a small black curl to escape.

Draco made himself look at Potter’s shoes. Black leather winkle pickers, with buckles and long pointed toes. They looked old fashioned, heavy and masculine. They fit well with the jeans. In addition, they would probably suit any formal Muggle outfit, and look especially good with many of the newer styles of robes, which were short and split up the sides – meant to be worn with Muggle style trousers or wizard leggings. They made Potter’s feet look large as well – good implications for other anatomical unknowns. Bad for a partner’s toes.

“They’re very handsome shoes,” Draco said slowly, “but….”

“Unfashionable?” Potter said, sounding disappointed.

“Nooo,” Draco said, still staring at Potter’s heavy leather boots. He couldn’t admit he’d seen Potter step on more than one lady’s toes! “No,” he said, feeling more confident that he could express his reason in purely... professional terms. “And they will be adequate when I’ve taught you to dance. But you should learn in something far lighter, far smaller. You need a smaller footprint. Learn exactly where the edges of your feet are. Then make them larger.” Draco pointed at his own feet. He wore shoes he had purchased from a Muggle shop, of all places. “You need shoes like mine. Leather oxfords, but made for dance classes. I’ll help you buy some, but today, let’s start with the shoes you wore to the party Saturday night. Those are what I rather assumed you were going to wear today.”

“Oh,” Potter said, looking relieved now. “Sure!” He twisted away into the air, presumably _Apparating_ to a nearby closet. Draco took advantage of his absence to examine the room. The floor looked just about perfect for a dancing lesson: polished wood, with a large open space free of rugs and furniture. They, he saw, had been pushed against the walls. The windows had long russet brown curtains, but they had all been opened to let in what sunlight was left – not much, sadly. It was nearly full dark outside, being early February. An upright piano stood against the wall between the fireplace and a large, comfortable looking leather chair. A simple spell set it to playing a long set of Brahms waltzes Draco found to be suitable for a lesson in the basics.

Draco was rubbing the sole of one shoe across a seam between two floorboards when Potter returned, wearing a scuffed up pair of black oxfords.

“Will these do for now?” he asked. “I did wear them the other night….”

Draco looked at Potter’s feet and nodded. “Those are fine,” he affirmed. “We’ll have you dancing in those pointed boots in no time!” He took a deep breath. Time to get down to business.

At first, Draco was able to engage Potter with activities that did not involve the two of them being in one another’s arms. They spent a good half hour on helping Potter hear, feel, and respond to the beat of the music. Eventually though, Draco had to take Potter in his arms and _dance_ with him.

He started with his most professional approach. He explained how to feel when your partner was leading. They talked about how to follow. He talked about teaching Potter to lead – but later, when he had learned more. They discussed the music (Potter found it a bit dull) but stuck with Brahms. They moved from a box step to adding turns – something Potter found desirable in theory but baffling in practice.

Somehow when encouraged to “just follow” Draco's lead, Potter had danced like a natural. But when encouraged to hear and respond to the beat, he hesitated and even stumbled.

The longer they spent dancing a simple box waltz, however, the harder Draco found it to ignore the warm waist under his hand, the sparkling eyes, the self-deprecating laughter when he stumbled and moved the wrong way.

Finally they came to the end of their ninety minute session. Potter stumbled into the chair by the piano and sat, looking winded. “That was a workout,” he said, and grinned.

“Shall I return Thursday?” Draco asked, heading for the Floo. He didn’t want to seem eager to leave; and yet, making his face look professionally neutral was becoming a challenge. Potter was so....

“Wait,” Potter said, standing and taking a step toward Draco. “Are you busy right now?”

Against all good judgment, Draco felt a flutter in his gut. Did Potter want…?

“You said something about dancing shoes, helping me buy a good pair. I was hoping we could do that soon. Now, maybe? If it isn’t too much trouble….”

Potter looked a bit sheepish, but now Draco realized it was only worry that he was taking up too much of Draco's time, asking too much. Draco clenched his stomach muscles, pushing away the butterflies.

Instead of answering, Draco pulled out his wand and cast “ _Calendra_ ” at his left hand. He normally cast it at the nearest wall, but he had no interest in sharing the minutiae of his plans with Potter. Especially not his client appointments. Confirming that his evening was unscheduled, he attempted a businesslike nod at Potter.

“I’d be happy to,” he said curtly. “I believe the place I purchased my shoes from is open until 9pm most weeknights. Shall I bring you side-along? We’re headed for a Muggle shopping centre, so we’ll want to be circumspect.”

“Oh,” Potter said. “Sure.” He smiled and reached for Draco's arm. Draco waved his left hand to banish the representation of his calendar and allowed Potter to take his right arm. “Ready?” he asked, and at Potter’s smile he twisted them away to a small corner inside a men’s room.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shopping with Potter was much more challenging than Draco could have anticipated. Simply put, Potter was delightful. He followed Draco’s lead, stood _almost_ -but-not-quite too close, laughed at Draco's subtle sarcasm, took Draco's suggestions, and balked at nothing – no matter how expensive. He bought the very best pair of dancing shoes in the store, despite a reasonable expectation that he would wear them for a few lessons and then be done. He insisted on treating Draco to a coffee when they had finished purchasing the shoes. He thought Draco's preference for chai was positively exotic; insisted on changing his own order to a chai as well, and then bought Draco the exact pastry he’d been eyeing when he thought Potter couldn’t see.

Draco's stomach muscles were clenched so tight by the time he bade the man farewell, he thought he’d likely wake the next morning somewhat sore. And not in any positive way, either.

Worst (and best) of all, Potter insisted upon being called Harry. Unless the worst/best part was the way Draco knew he only had one day off before he had to do this dance all over again.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

When Draco Flooed to Potter’s home on Thursday evening at exactly 5:30pm, he honestly felt unsure of what to expect. Nonetheless, everything was nearly the same. Potter was there, in casual clothes and the shoes Draco had helped him purchase. The piano was playing – Chopin this time. The curtains were open, letting in the dissipating sunlight and not much else. (Draco knew enough about Muggle life to realize this meant there were no streetlights near the windows, and wondered how isolated this house was.)

“Where are we?” he blurted rudely, then tried to hide a blush by striding to the nearest window to look out, but it just looked like England.

“The closest village is Zennor. We’re in Cornwall, not far from the Atlantic.”

“Zennor?” Draco said, honestly curious. He hadn’t heard of it.

Harry shrugged. “I guess I have a thing for mermaids,” he grinned. “Shall we dance?”

“Of course,” Draco said, not even pretending to hide his blush as he strode toward his client from the window. He might be permitted to call the man ‘Harry’ now, but they weren’t friends and he mustn’t forget and become too familiar, no matter how gentlemanly and welcoming Potter was. And especially no matter how sexy Potter was. That did not bear thinking about. He was just a whore moonlighting as a dancing instructor. Draco hid his sigh as he walked away from the window.

There was no excuse not to take Potter in his arms right away this time, so he did, and Potter eased close and smiled. Draco closed his eyes and told Potter to do the same.

“Tonight I want you to just feel the music. When we first danced, I saw right away that you had the ability. Something is getting in your way. Let’s try to side-step it this evening, all right?”

“All right,” Harry said, and Draco began to move to the music. They moved in an awkward line at first, a box step waltz, taking Potter stiffly forward and Draco back toward the other end of the room. Eventually however, Harry began to move with a sense of ease. So when Draco sensed that Potter had stopped trying to dance and moved to a more instinctive and comfortable place, Draco began to try more complex moves. At first he simply led them into a gentle turn, but Potter followed beautifully – like they were the same organism, so Draco turned them again, then in the other direction, then tried a more complex step. Harry managed it all without stumble, so Draco dipped him without really considering the ramifications first.

He knew, looking down at a Potter who grinned up at him brilliantly enough to light the room, he was going to regret the dip later, when Draco would need – he predicted – to masturbate at least two or three times before he would be able to fall asleep.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Merlin, Pansy, I have no damn idea what the fuck I have gotten myself into.” Draco drained his fourth lager and signaled the hot young thing tending bar for another. Funny how once upon a time, he had wanted to take Taji home badly enough to forget the twink was a Muggle. Tonight the very idea of fucking a boy who didn’t know magic was real made Draco want to cry.

Or maybe that was all the alcohol.

Or the way he could never have Potter.

He took the lager from Taji’s hand before the teenager could even put it down on the table, and drank damn near half of his pint in one swallow. Pansy raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. She was getting far too accustomed to his maudlin behavior, Draco realized. He stared at her out of one eye, and then the other.

“You’re drunk,” she sighed.

“Indeed?” he drawled. “Was that not the point of coming here?”

“No, Draco,” she incised. “The point of coming back to this obscure Muggle dump was not intoxication, but frank communication. Stop avoiding it and tell me what the hell has your nappy in a twist.”

Draco glowered at her, but put his lager down and braced himself against the edge of the table.

“It’s… Potter,” he finally managed. He couldn’t quite look her in the eye when he said that name.

“Potter?” she said, looking confused. “I know he drove you to the brink for years, but how could he be causing all this drama _now_?”

“He,” Draco paused and tried to grasp some poise. The alcohol was making that a challenge. “He asked me for… dancing lessons.”

Pansy’s eyebrow and the corner of her mouth rose in concert.

Draco gestured broadly enough that his lager sloshed dangerously. “Before you even think it, no. Just dancing lessons. Four times now, _four!_ , I’ve spent ninety painfully long minutes trying to teach him to have only _one_ left foot.”

“And how is that going?” Pansy asked. She hid her smirk behind her wine glass. Draco still knew it was there.

“Oh hell, Pans… he’s…,” Draco stopped and looked at the table. “He is…”

What could he say? Even to his best friend? That Potter was the kindest, most gentlemanly, handsomest man Draco had spent time with in years? That he was fighting off the crush of his life? That he felt butterflies every time Potter looked at him, and his heart beat faster the whole time he held Potter in his arms? For ninety minutes, every time?

“He’s a terrible dancer,” Draco finally lied, and the pair laughed and laughed until Draco couldn’t stop himself from crying.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

“All right,” Draco said evenly. “Tonight should probably be your last lesson. I do think you’ve made great progress.” He gave Potter a professional smile and waved his wand at Potter’s piano, which began to play. It would be both a relief and a tragedy when they stopped meeting. Pretending to feel like nothing more than a detached, formal, hired hand was starting to take a real toll. He wanted things he could most certainly never have and should _not_ be considering.

“Well,” Potter allowed, “I do feel more sure of myself, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for my big boots yet.” His slight pink flush was adorable.

Draco smiled, in spite of himself. “Perhaps not that pair,” he agreed.

“I have been known to step on toes,” Potter said, coming closer but not moving into a dance yet. “I’d never want to do that,” he said, and again hesitated to step into Draco's arms. “I know, I can be, clumsy….”

Draco shook his head in what he hoped was a kindly manner. “You’ve just had to learn to relax a bit, and I think you have. Your footwork is so much more sure now, you’re much more comfortable with the motions, with following the music and moving with a dance partner. I really think you’re going to feel much more comfortable the next time you’re asked onto a dance floor. I really do.”

“Thank you, Draco,” Potter said, but he stayed two steps away. “I didn’t just mean I’m insecure about dancing, though. There are… other aspects… other parts of life… what I mean to say is, er….”

Draco waited, but Potter was staring at Draco's middle and turning pinker.

“I mean to ask, that is,” Potter tried again. “It’s about, well, sex.”

“Sex?” Draco choked out, suddenly finding a most inconvenient boulder on his chest.

“Er, yeah,” Harry said. He finally got close enough to take Draco's hand. “I’m really interested in you, I’m sure you could tell….”

“Well,” Draco said, and tried again to dislodge the damn boulder with a deep breath and a false smile. “I charge fifteen hundred galleons for a full night of nearly unlimited access, er, and the charges descend from there, if you don’t want….”

Draco trailed off. Harry’s hand had gone icy and the bashful smile had slid off his face, like snow melting off a roof.

“I don’t want…,” Harry looked horrified.

Draco stood silent, assuming this was one of those moments when pretty much any choice he tried would be wrong.

“I don’t want to _buy_ your… your body, Draco. I wasn’t even sure that you… I mean, I have heard some rumours, and Seamus tried to tell me but I didn’t… I mean… you’re a… you sell….”

Harry’s hand turned to jelly and oozed from Draco's clasp. He gave Draco a pleading look and sat in the nearest chair.

Draco sat also. He felt a confession burbling up from the butterflies in his stomach and from his fast-beating heart, and – perhaps against his better judgment – he let it flow. To his surprise and relief, he actually wanted to talk about this. He actually wanted Harry to know.

“Sometimes I, I’ve been known to, to have to….” He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. “After Hogwarts, I tried to find an… honourable way to support my mother. Our legal fees were high, the fines were far higher, and access to all our overseas accounts were frozen. It costs a great deal to maintain an ancient Manor, as well. But my test scores were excellent so I thought I could find something reasonably lucrative.”

“Oh,” Potter said miserably.

“I guess you see I couldn’t, but the wealthy gentlemen I kept approaching finally made it clear that there was something they would pay me for. Something… extremely discreet. I gave in when I found Mother attempting to pay our lawyer with an heirloom. I realized that we couldn’t pay for much of anything that way. We would sell the Manor and start over, but – like the heirlooms – we can’t get much more than a quarter our asking price for anything. Not even the house. So we’d have to sell our whole history for a pittance that would be gone in six months. Then we would not only have no money, but nowhere to live. And I have my mother’s needs to think of, and… well, Father as well.”

Draco looked at Potter with some desperation. Almost no one knew this story. Almost no one was less likely to sympathize with Draco's desire to be kind to Lucius Malfoy, too. But Potter seemed to be listening.

“I know you don’t like him, Potter, with good reason, but he’s the only father I have, and Malfoy Manor means nearly everything to him. He may be rotting in jail but this way he can believe that his wife and son are still living in ancient Malfoy luxury. It helps keep Father… alive.”

“So… you’d rather do something else?”

“Much,” Draco agreed helplessly. “But I’m trapped. When I starting doing… this… I didn’t realize it would mean I was closing off everything else. Now I’m not just the son of an incarcerated Death Eater, I’m not just the idiot who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and set it up for Snape to kill Dumbledore,” He felt his face go fiery and he looked at his shoes. “Now I am a filthy _whore_.” Draco stood and began pacing. “If I had just tried harder, just managed to find _something_ else, _some_ way to lay low and keep the Manor in decent repair, just for… I don’t know, three years? Five?” Draco walked to the window and looked out, not sure if Harry could hear him anymore, but unable to speak any louder, or to turn around. “Then I could have finally worked my way into a decent entry-level position doing something respectable. I think by then someone would have been willing to overlook my past. But now, well, it took me six or seven months to understand that I’ll _never_ be respectable again. It doesn’t matter how picky I am about clients, either. And by the time I understood that, there seemed to be nothing I could do. I’ve trapped myself.”

Draco felt a tear leaking from his eye and wiped it away, feeling so deeply ashamed that he could hardly breathe. Despite unburdening himself to Harry, that fucking boulder on his lungs had only become heavier. He couldn’t bear to check the look on Harry’s face, so he stared at the floor.

“I should go. Of course I won’t charge you for this dancing lesson. If you still want another,” he paused to wipe more tears from his leaking eyes, “just owl me in… a week or two.”

Before he could do or say anything else embarrassing, Draco _Apparated_ directly into his bedroom at the Manor.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

It was a good thing there was nothing on Draco's calendar until Friday evening at four. It meant he could spent the next three days drunk as a skunk. He refused to speak to Mother about it at all, and turned back Pansy’s owl with a scribbled “not now, maybe next week? I’m sorry,” on the bottom of her elegant invitation to tea. (The invitation to gossip was implied.) He hid in his rooms, drank and sulked, assuming he would get over the embarrassment eventually.

Every time he woke up still embarrassed and miserable, he just drank more until he couldn’t quite remember what he was working so hard to forget. By then he was nearly asleep again.

It wasn’t conducive to progress, but it really helped kill the shame. At least, it did while he wasn’t asleep, or violently vomiting into the toilet while the house elves fretted and wrung their hands.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

It was Friday just after breakfast when Draco’s mother finally broke through his wards and stood in his doorway, imperious and frightened. “You must present yourself, Draco. You have a visitor. A _distinguished_ visitor. I will not permit you to put him off.”

Draco opened one eye and looked at his mother. He wiped at the drool on his chin and winced at the pain in his head. How could he have stupidly allowed himself to become sober? Oh, yes, Count Rugen at four. He wanted to puke just thinking about it. Being a whore really sucked. He laughed at his own internal pun and then nearly cried at the pain. He’d never had such an evil hangover in all his days.

“What was that, again?” he managed to ask of her.

She tapped one heel, once, and frowned. Instead of answering him she snapped out, “Zarfy!” The house elf appeared immediately.

“Mistress calls Zarfy?”

“Attend to Master Draco. He is unwell and requires you to make him presentable for our distinguished visitor.”

“Distinguished visitor wishes for Master Draco?!” Zarfy said in an awed voice, and a thought attempted to burrow into Draco's conscious mind. He moaned at the pain of it.

Despite Zarfy’s magic and prodding and pain relief, it was a full twenty-four minutes later that, potioned, lotioned, showered, and dressed in respectable robes, Draco entered the sitting room to see whom his mother and the help refused to identify by name.

It was Harry Potter.

Only decades of training prevented Draco from running from the room like a rabbit.

Potter turned from the window, but Draco absolutely refused to believe what he seemed to see in Potter’s eyes.

“Please, do sit down,” he attempted, and turned to Zarfy in the doorway to request their tea. Zarfy had anticipated the request and stood there with a large tray, so he waved her in and she put it down between what she apparently assumed would be their chairs.

“What can I do for you, Mr Potter?” Draco attempted as Zarfy bowed and vanished. He prayed Potter would follow along and pretend their last conversation had never occurred.

No such luck.

“Draco, I can’t imagine what the hell you are doing. Why haven’t you answered my owls? I have been trying to talk to you for days!”

Draco barely tried to hide his surprise. He vaguely remembered setting wards to repel owls, but hadn’t Pansy’s owl come through? Then again, Pansy was familiar with his snits. And his spells. And wait, Potter had been trying – hard – to contact him?

“Why did you want to talk to me?” he asked formally, looking away from Potter and taking a tiny biscuit from the tray. He knew he needed to start small with reintroducing solids. Still. Chocolate.

Potter stood up and began to pace. Draco noticed that Potter was using his hands a lot as he talked. That was new.

“First I wanted to talk to you because I wanted to say that we should try together to overcome this… obstacle. Then I wanted to tell you that I don’t think I could date an… er, well, an active, uh, escort. But I could date a former one. If it were you, I mean.” He looked up at Draco with pure, pathetic misery. “But then when you didn’t answer those owls, I went digging. Well, more accurately, I called in a favour. Do you know Sturgis Podmore?”

“The Head Auror? Not personally, no.” Draco put down his second tiny chocolate biscuit on his saucer and stared at Potter. “Are you siccing the Aurors on me? I’ll have you know, I am very careful, always, to stay within the law—”

“No, Draco!” Potter exclaimed. “No! Not to get you arrested, just the opposite!” Potter sat down at the edge of the nearest chair, feet way out, taking up all the space, his earnest eyes and twisting hands right in Draco's face.

“I went to ask Sturgis if there wasn’t something he could do. Hire you, find you a job. Draco, I still can’t believe what he said.”

Draco waited politely for the other shoe, for at least three or four seconds. “What?” he finally snapped. “What did Auror Podmore say?”

“He asked me if I knew why you hadn’t taken your allotted seat on the Wizengamot.”

Draco laughed sadly. “Oh, that.” He sighed and took a bite, finishing his third chocolate biscuit. “They took that right away from me. When they declined to put me on trial, they nonetheless took away my hereditary rights to a seat. They told me so quite explicitly.”

“Sturgis says that isn’t true, Draco. That it’s a lie. He wondered if perhaps someone told you that, because he’s always sort of vaguely wondered why you didn’t take it, or so he said. Anyway, Hermione and I looked it up in the archives. Your father’s right was automatically terminated when he was sentenced to Azkaban the first time, but that actually _activates_ your right. Since your father can’t take the family seat, and you were never tried, there’s nothing to challenge you taking yours.”

Draco sat in his chair, stunned. He was vaguely aware that he had only raised his teacup halfway to his mouth.

Harry wrung his hands again and jumped to his feet, pacing nervously again. “I don’t… I don’t want it to sound like this is some sort of fairytale ending,” he finally said. Sturgis warned me, and so did Hermione, and I think they are both right. Trying to take your seat… they won’t be able to stop you, not legally, but I feel sure a lot of people – Members of the Wizengamot, the press, Merlin knows who else – will try to torture you right off the bench. They’ll say horrible things to you, the peer pressure will surely be just horrid. But here’s the thing. They can’t _make_ you quit. You are entitled to that position. As in, truly en _titled_. Like, it should be your title! And the job comes with an office, an assistant, and a pretty decent purse. I checked. In your first year on the bench you are due to earn a full sixty thousand galleons.”

Draco felt like his eyes might bug out of his head. That was slightly more than enough to cover all of his and his mother’s most basic expenses. It wasn’t as much as he made in a good year as an escort, but a judge’s salary went up. Probably every year. An escort would always reach a point where his looks – and therefore his compensation – went down steadily every year.

He stood and reached out an unsteady hand to Harry. “You are certain of all this? You… you can’t have made an error?”

Harry took Draco's hand and gave a wobbly smile. “I’m sure. Sturgis is sure, Hermione is sure, and really, I’m sure too. I saw the laws, I read that bit of your file, and your father’s file, too.” Harry blushed and looked at the floor before he continued. “I hope that doesn’t feel like a violation of your privacy. I mean, I thought I should be completely certain before I came and told you about this.”

Draco reached out with his other hand and tipped Harry’s chin up slightly.

“I can forgive you for reading my file, Harry. Certainly I can. You had… you had _such_ a good reason.” He paused, trying to allow this new possibility to sink in. “Zarfy!” he called, and she appeared and bowed.

“Master calls Zarfy?”

“Fetch my owl, parchment, navy ink and a quill.” Zarfy bowed and vanished.

“You want to contact Sturgis?” Harry queried.

“No, I have an afternoon appointment I need to cancel,” Draco said. “I’ll contact Auror Podmore in person. I’ve no idea how, exactly, to claim my hereditary rights to this… seat. But I plan to. I plan to claim it today. I expect I shall need your help, and Podmore’s as well, to make it happen that quickly and also to keep it silent. At least until Monday morning.” Draco blushed. “That is, if you would be willing to help me again.”

Harry nodded, and Draco clasped both of Harry’s hands in his, not ignoring the way lightning consequently tingled up and down his spine and shot into his belly. He smiled, giving the slightest edge of naughtiness to his gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Harry Potter. This is exactly what Mother and I have needed. Exactly what has been kept from me. You won’t regret this. I will be an excellent… Member.”

Both men blushed at this, and Harry looked grateful when Zarfy chose that second to return with what Draco needed to write his letter.

Draco quickly dashed off a polite but firm apology to Count Rugen. He realized as he wrote, this was the first time in his “career” he was canceling an appointment without clear words offering to reschedule. He had no interest whatsoever in rescheduling this meeting. All Count Rugen ever wanted was to spank Draco, spit on him, fuck him, pay him, and then walk out of the room without so much as a by-your-leave. He paid extremely well, but he was nonetheless one of Draco's very worst clients, at least as Draco ranked them. His favourites were actually the old widows. Most of them wanted him to fuck them of course, but they were so _grateful_ afterwards. And they always wanted to show him off first, which meant lovely food and lovely parties and why was he even thinking about this now? He never had to do this again and he never wanted to. And if he understood Harry correctly, he would soon have a _boyfriend_ , with whom he would do nothing except what he and Harry _both_ chose to do. He shivered and finished the note to Rugen.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

“So,” Podmore said slowly, “we’ve had you sign the book, we’ve cast the Acceptance spell and you have been formally recognized by the bench itself, and the portraits in here have all been sworn to silence. Not that anyone ever comes in here at the weekend. All that’s left is to show you to your new office. Since you’re the newest Member, the building will have put you at the very end of this hallway, here.”

The Head Auror, who never seemed to smile, took two steps forward and opened a door Draco had somehow missed in his jittering excitement. The lights came on as the three of them looked down the stone-walled hall. “Your name should be on the door, assuming we did this all correctly, and I believe we have.” He nodded at Draco, who nodded back nervously.

“Do you need any more assistance? I could help you ward the room, if you like. I certainly recommend strong wards.” He paused, then frowned at Draco, who swallowed in response. “This won’t be a cake walk for you, I feel sure.”

“I have this book, here,” Harry interjected, removing a slim yellow volume from a pocket. “Hermione Granger found it for us.” He showed it to Podmore, who nodded approval at the cover.

“That’s certainly the best guide,” he affirmed. “You should have everything you need, with that.” He gave Draco a grim nod and stuck out a hand, which Draco firmly shook, hiding his feelings of uncertainty as best he could. Then Podmore clapped Harry on the shoulder. “I’ll be heading home, then, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Harry answered for them both, and Draco looked down the long, straight hallway as Podmore left the enormous courtroom. “This might take all weekend,” he said quietly. “We’d best get started.”

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

They were only halfway through warding the two rooms, and Harry was making Draco utterly mad. He touched Draco _constantly_. A fingertip to Draco's wrist, as they discussed a spell they were both reading. His breath on the back of Draco's neck when Draco sat in what would be his new assistant’s chair. Their ankles tangling as they sat across the assistant’s desk from one another, and Harry suggested Pansy might want to be Draco's new assistant. At first the idea was intriguing, but then Draco couldn’t think at all as he felt Harry’s toes at his ankle. When Draco stood in front of the doorway and cast the final spell to ward his assistant’s part of the double room, Harry stood right behind him, putting off enough heat to turn Draco red as a beet, from his cheeks to his nipples.

Finally, both aroused and embarrassed, Draco snapped. “What the hell are you _doing_?” he squeaked. “You just keep _distracting_ me! We’re never going to finish! I wanted to get this done quickly and take you to _dinner_!” He blushed. There went subtlety.

“You did?” Harry smiled.

“Well,” Draco hesitated. “Would that be all right?”

Harry stepped closer but Draco was too flustered to react.

“Because,” Draco continued, “I had thought, you know, that there was… something… between us….” He was looking at the floor now, embarrassed. He was surprised when the tips of Harry’s enormous winkle-picker boots were suddenly right there, and he looked up to see Harry, reaching for his hands. He let Harry take them both.

“There is definitely something between us, Draco.”

Hearing Harry say his name like that, husky, expectant, and hopeful, all Draco could do was swallow and look into Harry’s eyes.

“I would love to go to dinner with you.”

Draco couldn’t help but grin at that.

“But before that, being alone with you here, alone in these rooms, alone in this wing, possibly the only ones in the whole building…. I wasn’t thinking about food, Draco.”

“No?” Draco said, feeling speared by possibilities he could barely allow himself to anticipate, even now.

“I was, however… thinking about eating.” He winked at Draco, and Draco felt the butterflies all return to his stomach. A hundred, thousand butterflies, all at once. He clenched his stomach muscles automatically and could think of absolutely nothing to say.

Harry let go of Draco's hands, but reached for Draco's waistband. “Though not food….” Harry continued. He put his hands on the fasteners of Draco's trousers, then looked up into Draco's eyes. “Let me be very explicit,” Harry said, in a slightly formal tone that fit him surprisingly well. “I would very much like to suck your cock.”

Draco felt his eyes go wide, but he didn’t stop them.

“Right here, in your new office. If I may? Then, if you would, I would very much like you to fuck me. There will be times when I would like to top you, but today I would prefer to be topped.” Harry grinned a lop-sided school boy grin. He looked mischievous and it made Draco want to break all the rules.

“Yes,” Draco said. “Yes.”

/ / / / / / /

Later, as they lay languidly kissing on his new, conjured tiger skin rug, Draco found he was of the opinion that all of that positive energy had helped strengthen the wards.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

Draco leaned tentatively into Harry’s side, wondering how he would react. They were in public, after all, in front of Harry’s friends. But Harry put his left arm around Draco easily, quickly. As though hesitation had never crossed his mind. Draco smiled and tried to listen as Harry spoke to his friends.

“Oh Merlin, Neville, you should have _seen_ the look on some of their faces when they saw us Monday morning. But Draco spent the whole weekend preparing his new office,” he turned and put his nose in Draco's hair, and Draco blushed. “Didn’t you, pet?”

When Draco didn’t speak, Granger did. “So that book of warding spells I got you came in handy?” She looked nervous, but Draco suspected it wasn’t over him. She seemed to be more worried _for_ him. Did that make him akin to a needy little thing? Like a house elf? Did he even care?

“Oh, yes,” Draco finally piped in. “We used quite a few spells from the book you bought. Thank you, Hermione.” It felt incredibly strange to use her first name, but everyone had been so clear that it was now expected of him.

“That’s a relief,” Granger said. “I wanted something that would be effective, and completely above-board, of course, couldn’t have even a whiff of the Dark for them to accuse you of, and then it all had to be impossible for anyone else to undo, of course….”

Weasley patted Granger’s hand. “You did fine, Hermione. Harry and, er, Draco said so. Didn’t they?”

Longbottom shot a weighted look at Harry, who smiled. “Absolutely, Hermione! Podmore himself pronounced it all top-notch. Hell, _I_ can’t even enter Draco's new Wizengamot office without express permission from Draco. Not even his new assistant will be able to override Draco's wards!”

Harry took a deep swig off his ale and Draco decided to do the same. Tomorrow night he and Harry were meeting Pansy, Blaise and Theo at the Dragons Wing, in Edinburgh. He could manage this meeting of Gryffindors if Harry could intend to manage that one.

As if sensing Draco's thoughts, Harry kissed Draco's hair.

Somehow, everything had worked out, in the end. Even if Harry still didn’t really know how to dance.


End file.
